Agent of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

  Maggie gasped. “I never yelled.” Her face reddened. “I might have hinted you needed to eat more.”

  The princess winked. “From you, that’s yelling.”

  She expected her handmaiden to giggle, but she didn’t. In fact she seemed rather melancholy.

  “Maggie? Is something wrong?”

  Tears welled in her friend’s eyes. When she spoke, her voice cracked with emotion. “Hassan is dead.”

  She knows! Oh, my poor dear. But… how much does she know?

  “I am so sorry, Maggie.” Arabelle sat on the bed and patted the spot beside her. “Sit with me. Tell me what happened.”

  Maggie sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. “Tabor was kind enough to come to my tent last night when he found out. He said Hassan died valiantly on a long-distance scouting expedition to fight slavers.” She sniffed and gave a small smile. “But he was given a proper burial—just like an Imazighen. I always knew he would prove himself worthy of our people.”

  Arabelle gave her friend a heartfelt hug. Tabor was indeed kind. That story was much better than the truth. Still, it changed little. Maggie was still brokenhearted.

  Arabelle kissed Maggie on the cheek. “He was worthy, Maggie. Stay strong. And remember, time heals all wounds.”

  All wounds except mine.

  Almost as soon as Maggie had left, Tabor arrived. “Princess? Can we talk?”

  Arabelle waved him in. To her surprise, he had brought her a tray of breakfast, which he set before her.

  “Why, thank you, Tabor,” Arabelle said, sitting down to eat. “I would be delighted if you would break your fast with me.”

  “No thank you, Princess, I have eaten already. But I figured you would be hungry after last night’s activities.”

  She froze in the middle of ripping off a hunk of bread. Did he see me sneak out?

  “Activities?” she said innocently.

  His bearded face revealed no hint of what he was thinking, but his brown eyes studied her carefully. Finally he said, “It’s nothing. I might have thought you would sneak out to console Maggie regarding what happened to the Nameless soldier.”

  Arabelle scooped food into her bowl nonchalantly. “No, I didn’t sneak out to talk to Maggie. Though this morning she did tell me of your talk with her. It was kind… what you told her.”

  To her surprise, Tabor looked sheepish. “Given her fondness for the Nameless soldier…”

  “Hassan. His name was Hassan.”

  Tabor nodded. “Yes. I felt it was best that her memory of him remained a pleasant one. I apologize for not talking with you first, Princess, but you had already retired to your tent and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  Arabelle gulped at the thought of what Tabor might have found had he come to her tent to speak to her. “I would have agreed with your actions. As I said, it was a kindness. I would want Hassan to be remembered not as a Nameless, but as one of the Imazighen.”

  Tabor grunted his assent. “Thank you, Princess. It’s within your right to declare such. I know I overstepped my authority.”

  It is within my right?

  Arabelle had never given it much thought, but she’d seen her father expel lawbreakers from the Imazighen and declare them Nameless. Why not the opposite?

  “I will tell my father you secured my assent beforehand. You deserve credit, not criticism.”

  Tabor shook his head vehemently. “No, Princess. I have already told your father what I have done. I cannot keep anything from him.”

  “And?”

  “Your father replied as you have. He declares no fault in my actions. He cleared my honor, for which I am grateful.”

  Arabelle stood and wrapped him in a hug. “You’re the most honorable man I know, and I love you for it.” She took a step back. “Can I ask a favor?”

  Tabor’s face seemed to mask warring emotions just beneath the surface. “Anything you ask is my will, Princess.”

  “I’d like to learn some things about combat, and I need you to answer me truthfully, without asking why I’m asking.”

  Tabor frowned and eyed her curiously for a long moment. Finally he spoke. “Finish your food, Princess. You will need to keep up your strength.” He turned toward the exit. “I’ll return in fifteen minutes with some supplies to start our conversation.”

  As the flap closed behind him, Arabelle said aloud to an empty tent, “Supplies?”

  Tabor sat across from her with various pieces of armor and weapons arrayed between them. “I’ve brought with me a number of items involved in combat. Many of these are items you will likely never use—such as heavy plate. But you should know about such things and how to combat foes who do wear it.”

  Arabelle suppressed a smile. This was more than she had intended to ask about, but she welcomed the opportunity to learn.

  “Can I start by asking a few specific questions?”

  He nodded. “Of course, Princess. Anything you want to know, I will try to enlighten you.”

  Arabelle rubbed her chin. “I’ve been thinking about the use of my daggers. All this time, we’ve trained on fighting tactics, improving my reaction times as well as gaining muscle memory for all of my attacks and defenses. I’ll be honest, I had a dream in which I needed to strike out, but couldn’t see how to achieve a quick kill. It frightens me that we’ve never talked about the natural use of these things you’ve taught me. If the moment ever arises, I would hope to kill instantly or not attack at all. What are the most lethal approaches for striking an enemy with only a dagger?”

  Tabor nodded. “Princess, that is a very important question. I’m happy that you’ve brought this up. Lesson one in combat, you don’t unsheathe your dagger unless your intent is to kill, and kill quickly.” He pointed a finger at her to emphasize. “No bluffing either. If your intent isn’t to kill, you shouldn’t bear a weapon.”

  Tabor picked up an iron dagger and pointed to its cutting edge. “Notice the straight edge of this dagger. It’s good for a slashing motion to open someone up, and slicing attacks with a blade are most effective against the soft tissues of your enemy.” He illustrated by placing the dagger against his neck. “Either side of the neck will cut the blood supply to the enemy’s head. This is almost always a fatal strike.”

  “What if you want a silent kill?”

  Tabor gave her a devious smile. “Good question. Especially useful if your others are nearby who might come to assist.” He illustrated the dagger traveling from one side of the neck to the other. “A similar but stronger slash is required to cut through both the side and front of the neck. Breathing and speech travels through the middle of the neck, so to limit the sounds, your knife will need to cut through the sinew and cartilage that protects the throat. But understand, this will require both a well-placed slash and a good amount of power.”

  “Like trying to slash through a steak?”

  His eyes twinkled with amusement. “More like a steak with lots of gristle and cartilage. Such an attack is also very messy. Blood will spray in all directions.”

  “Any other locations for a quick kill?”

  Tabor touched the back of his neck. “A dagger plunged into the base of the skull is sure to cause an instant death, but be aware, there is a significant risk of your blade being deflected by the bones of the shoulder or spine.” He then touched two spots on his chest. “Your heart lies behind a bone in the center of your chest. If you stab off-center, at an angle, you should be able to cause a near-instant death as well. Just beware of getting your dagger stuck. Your blade can get wedged in between the ribs, making it difficult to retrieve.”

  “Do the tactics change depending on the dagger used?”

  “Another good question. They can. Each dagger has its own weight, heft, and shape, and this—”

  “What about this one?” Arabelle interrupted. She had made ready her own “supplies” before Tabor returned with his, and now she pulled one of her mother’s daggers from behind her back.

  Tabor’s
eyes widened. “May I see that, Princess?”

  She handed the dagger to him and smiled as he passed his fingers gingerly along the flat of the blade. “I haven’t seen this weapon in many years. I am pleased to see it has found its proper home. I assume you also have its mate?”

  Arabelle nodded.

  “Good. These daggers were specially crafted by dwarven smiths many hundreds of years ago, and are the ultimate in assassin’s weaponry. They are made of the rarest of metals, damantite. It’s said to be unbreakable, and once set true by the smith, its edges never need honing. And you see this slight wave along the edge? That causes more damage, and wounds from such a dagger often cause heavy bleeding. This is a most lethal weapon, my princess.” He handed it back to her.

  Arabelle approached her next topic cautiously. “What if I am attacking from behind? Would a stab to the back be sufficient?”

  Tabor pointed to the right and left of his lower back. “Strikes here are mortal, but the victim will not die quickly, and would retaliate. I would again recommend a stab to the base of the skull.”

  “What about a stab in the middle of the back?”

  Tabor shook his head. “Even with your fine weapons, such a strike is risky. If successful, it can be instantly fatal, but there is a lot of bone along the spine to protect the vulnerable parts.”

  Arabelle looked down and sucked on her lower lip dramatically.

  “What troubles you, Princess?”

  “I had another vision, Tabor. In this one, I wondered if my enemy was a demon.”

  Tabor’s eyes widened with concern. “Why do you say this? What did you see?”

  “After I attacked my enemy from behind, he flailed about. There was almost no blood, but a clear liquid oozed out from the wound in his back.”

  Tabor breathed a sigh of relief. “No, Princess, even if your vision was a premonition of a real event, this wasn’t a demon. A lucky strike into the back could sever the spine, which contains a clear fluid. Even mild injuries to the spine can result in paralysis, leaving soldiers unable to move their legs or even their arms.”

  He picked up a piece of chain mail. “Now, let’s cover attacks on armored enemies…”

  Arabelle turned in her saddle and watched the long procession of wagons trailing behind. They were now east of Cammoria, on the move again after having finished trading with a cluster of villages that specialized in leather goods and high-quality farming supplies. The caravan’s next stop, to the north, would allow them to trade with those who grew the best grapes and produced the best wines in all of Trimoria.

  Father enjoyed his wine, and Arabelle smiled as she thought of the enjoyment he got not only from sampling a new year’s vintage, but from talking with the people who made it. He was a committed friend to his people. He’d often explained to her that his respect wasn’t given to him by virtue of his being Honfrion, Sheikh of the Imazighen, but that his respect was earned by virtue of him looking after the welfare of those who depended on him.

  “Always treat people the way you hope for them to treat you,” he would say. “My heart, this is the way of our family and our people.”

  They crested a hill, and Arabelle appreciated the view behind them. The vast forest south of Cammoria was as beautiful from afar as it was disturbing up close. Frightful rumors spread about the place.

  “It’s haunted, I say…”

  “The witch of the woods will capture your soul…”

  “Many a soldier has entered that misty forest, never to return.”

  When she was a young girl, she ignored those rumors and ran as free in the Cammorian forest as she did in the one near Aubgherle. Until the day she heard the song—a song that, for a reason she knew not, chilled her from head to toe. She sprinted back to Tabor, who was always nearby, and cried on his shoulder.

  Her father later forbade her from ever going near that forest again, and uncharacteristically she obeyed. She didn’t want to go back there.

  It was strange how something so frightening up close could seem so harmless, even glorious, from a distance. Still, Arabelle was happy to turn and put her back to the supposedly haunted place. It was time to move forward.

  There was wine in her future.

  A regal-looking elf with brown skin and pale hair walks through the woods at the edge of an empty, uncultivated land. She pauses—waiting for something?—and a look of concentration appears on her face. She closes her almond-shaped eyes, and from her fingers blooms a ball of sparking energy.

  The ball fades, and now a dark line appears in the air. Ribbons of energy flow from it, forming a purple maelstrom of light.

  A second elf steps out of this maelstrom. Her hair is raven-black, and her complexion is almost entirely white. The sparks cease behind her, the line vanishes, and the two elves greet each other, each holding up one open hand with splayed fingers.

  “Avud,” says the regal elf.

  The pale elf shakes her head. “I will not own that name, Queen of Seder. We were never lost. It is the women within Eluanethra who remain in ignorance of what true power is. My people simply seek fulfillment of our true power through our Lady and mistress, Lilith.”

  The regal elf shrinks back at the mention of this name.

  Her opposite laughs, flashing serpent-like fangs.

  “What can I do for you, lost one?” asks the regal elf.

  The pale-skinned elf leans forward. “I seek a discovery of the Ta’ah, Ellisandrea. Those dwarven wizards will not speak to us, but I know that you maintained a relationship with their cousins. They hide an artifact that Lilith would cherish.”

  Ellisandrea shakes her head. “The dwarves of this time barely recognize the existence of their brethren. Besides, anything your mistress would cherish is no concern of mine. I will never help you find what you seek.”

  The pale elf gives a guttural snarl and shows her fangs once more. “Fine. But know that I will find the object for my queen. Your refusal changes nothing—other than to force me to dig up all of Trimoria.”

  With a wave of her arm, those same purple flashes appear around her, and the pale elf vanishes.

  Ellisandrea shakes her head. “What has your evil mistress done to you, lost one?”

  The scene flashed white.

  Ellisandrea defends the entrance to a large underground chamber, holding a magical shield against the onslaught of a demon that towers over her. The demon’s skin has been torn from the elf’s attacks, and their battle has damaged the very walls around them. The demon spies a crack in the wall and dives through it.

  The floor begins to shake. The elf reels back as clouds of dust burst from the fissure. And then the demon reemerges, crackling with a mystical energy. It now wields an orb of glowing white, which throbs as if in time with a heartbeat. The look on the demon’s face is triumphant.

  But that expression changes to one of surprise—and then of pain. Its body cracks. Its skin bursts. Steam pours from within it.

  Black streams of power erupt from the orb and spear the demon. A black nimbus of power grows around its head, and licks of flame flash in an expanding torrent of power.

  A cloud of steam obscures the demon, but the sounds of tearing flesh and shattering scales are clear, as is the unearthly scream of pain.

  The orb drops and rolls toward Ellisandrea. She grabs the orb and runs for the exit. Behind her, the chamber collapses, and laughter rolls after her.

  The scene flashed white.

  The vision flies through mist-covered woods, slowing and circling as it reaches a clearing. In that clearing is a small wooden building… and a dark black altar.

  The altar emits a slow throbbing pulse.

  The vision moves closer, and closer still. The throbbing increases. Soon the dark stone structure is everything and the booming heartbeat is deafening.

  The altar shakes with the reverberations, and a geyser of noxious fumes erupts, filling the scene completely.

  Arabelle screamed as she jumped out of her bed, her nightclothes
soaked with sweat.

  A guard’s voice called from outside. “Princess! Are you well?”

  She looked around her tent, trying to slow her heart. “Yes, I’m fine. I… had a nightmare. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologize for, Princess. If you need anything, simply ask.” His footsteps receded.

  If I need anything, simply ask.

  She definitely needed something. She needed to understand these visions. Were they real? If so, were they premonitions of the future, or scenes from the past? And why was she having them at all?

  She had so many questions, and no one to ask. There were no seers in the caravan, had not been since… since her own mother.

  As she began her exercises, she wished, and not for the first time, that her mother were here with her.

  As they traveled the next day, Arabelle asked her father how her mother had come to make sense of her own visions.

  He laughed. “I don’t think she did. Your mother spent a lot of time contemplating her visions, but she was almost always left utterly perplexed. But the answers almost always revealed themselves when the moment was right.”

  “But how could she use her visions if she didn’t understand them until much later?”

  Father turned in his saddle and eased his horse closer to hers. He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Are you having visions, my flower?”

  She shrugged. “I’m having something. But it’s hard to be sure what’s a vision of truth and what’s… just a dream.”

  Father nodded. “That was how it was with your mother. She was always frustrated by just that question. Perhaps you have the gift. If you do, time will reveal it. Be patient. When you need to know the truth, it will come to you.”

  That night, Arabelle’s dreams were again troubled—and yet each time she awoke, holding on to them was like grabbing mist. It was not until her final sleep session of the night that she was struck by a vision that she could not forget.